


Golden Hour

by CallousHeartz



Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Album), My Chemical Romance, The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Comic)
Genre: M/M, little snippets of zone life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-21 20:31:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16583627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallousHeartz/pseuds/CallousHeartz
Summary: the sun is a powerful thing - and a stunning one, too.





	Golden Hour

He eases the hair tie over one hand and pulls his hair up, off his shoulders, with the other.  
A piece still tumbles over one eye, and he curses it under his breath, scrunching up his nose like it's deliberately insulted him.  
Ghoul, beside him, just laughs.

"Here, man, just.." Reaching across, he guides the stubborn strand behind Poison's ear.

Poison leans back on his elbows, still wearing his jacket on his forearms.

"Damn," He comments, "You're a fuckin' hairdresser now, I gotta pay you more,"

Ghoul snorts. Flicking ash from the tip, he takes a short, heavy drag from the smoke between his fingers.

"You don't pay me shit,"

"Exactly." 

Ghoul stubs the cigarette out and tosses it off the rooftop, then stretches his distressed denim-clad legs out in front of him.

"Asshole," Poison mutters, "That could well'a landed on some fucker's head,"

His comment's met with raised eyebrows,

"And since when have _you_ of all people cared 'bout strangers?"

"Never said I did," Poison replies coolly, tilting his chin up.

Ghoul shakes his head, amused,

"And _I'm_ the asshole here."

The sun's tipped this transparent liquid amber film over everything, warm and humid as the air itself, a mid-afternoon glow which hangs off Poison's carved-out cheekbones and almost melts away the tired rings around his eyes.  
He tips his head back, a delicate breeze brushing at his neck.  
This same breeze leads that strand back over his face, but he doesn't swear at it this time.

Ghoul swings his legs back and forth over the ledge, glancing over the outlines of distant sand dunes and Joshua trees with their cotton bud branches.

"This shack's got a cool view," He points out.

Poison doesn't reply, but he's looking, too; resting his cheek on his own shoulder, lips parted just a little like he's catching his breath, entranced. Sharp features and his trademark solemn expression are on a break. This is a look of wonder - of new, genuine fascination. Of contentment, of feeling security for just a second. 

Of needing nothing more than that very place and time.

 _Looks like he's fallin' in love with the fuckin' scenery,_ Ghoul thinks. Then he realises he's had his breath captive in his throat for at least ten seconds.

Maybe Poison's not the only one falling in love.


End file.
